Hope
by SkyKissed
Summary: "Nick. Let me help." Just this once. Let her make it even. Let her make the effort. For one beautiful minute, Nick stills almost completely, staring at her with a miserable sort of clarity. For one minute, Juliette almost thinks she can save him. Could be vaguely spoilery for the S3 premiere. N/J


A/N: Adored Juliette in the premiere . So...had to torture her. I'm sure this will be invalid next week. But I needed to play around in her head. :)

* * *

**HOPE**

* * *

She thinks sometimes that there must be a higher power in this life. Maybe not a god, certainly nothing overly benevolent, but there's some guiding force out there, directing their lives. Traffic conductor of the universe, distributing all the good and all the bad. Equally, she hopes. A part of her, some idealistic part of her, likes to imagine life is equal parts positive and negative, the forces balanced in their opposition.

And then Juliette thinks, with a grim, half-mad, sort of amusement, that maybe that entity, whatever it is, is just a bastard. Maybe some of them just get the shit end of the stick and there's no rhyme or reason to anything. There's no good, no evil, just shit. All around and for everyone.

Right now, that's looking more and more likely.

Nick is gone. She's only just got him back and now he's just...gone. A part of her, a large part, wants to rage at the unfairness of it all. After everything they've gone through, after everything _he_ has gone through, they deserve each other. They have earned some reprieve; they have earned a happy ending, even a temporary one. The loss is so severe that it leaves her gasping for breath, panic tearing at her. She feels the same sickening sensation she suffered from in the curse's aftermath, an emptiness in her chest that she can't quite explain. Loss, maybe. The knowledge that she's only just fought her way back into her own life and now it's ending all over again.

She shifts restlessly in front of the bar, feeling Rosalee's eyes on her. The other woman is concerned but does not speak, perhaps understanding that she needs the space. It's better that way. Her skin seems to prickle with a very real energy, every one of her muscles coiled tight. Fight or flight (and god, she wants to fight; she's ready to lash out at anything) kicking into high gear. Only there's nothing to fight, no one to overcome, and nowhere to run to. She can only stand here, impotent, as the others work to find Nick.

It isn't fair.

At least he'd had the opportunity to prove himself. Nick had fought for her tirelessly, either attempting to worm his way back into her life or end the curse. He'd been willing to die for her, willing to put his very life on the line for even the _chance_ at reclaiming her memories. He'd been what he always was. A damn knight in shining armor stepped right out of one of those fairy tales (not the kind they are living; no, the good kind, the ones with happy endings), all too eager to sacrifice himself for his love. Ever since the day she met him he's been noble like that. Stupidly noble and dedicated.

But whatever ideal she might indulge in her better hours, whatever concept of equality in the universe she might choose to believe in, pales here. Their situation, their roles, _aren't_ equal. They aren't even close. Equality says that after everything Nick went through for her she should get to return the favor. It's her chance to prove her love, her dedication and she isn't even allowed _that_. He's just gone. He's out there somewhere, in a hell of a worse state than she ever was, and she's just here. Pacing, impotent and suddenly aware of just how outclassed she is. She isn't a cop. She isn't wesen. She's just some woman, dragged into this ridiculous supernatural power play.

All she wants is Nick. She can't even have that.

Juliette wraps her arms around herself, the motion more for protection than to ward off the chill air. It's cold, damp, but she doesn't feel it. She doesn't feel anything. Her thoughts are running in circles, the panic exhausting and exhilarating all at once. Her fingers clench and unclench at her sides, eyes scanning the trees in fitful patterns as if she'll catch sight of him out in the trees.

The traitorous voice in her head, disparaging and weak (and needing to shut up, just shut up, she doesn't want to hear it), whispers that even if she did find him she would be powerless. Next to a Grimm, even if she doesn't properly understand what that constitutes, she is something lesser. She is outclassed. If their positions were reversed she knows, as surely as she knows the color of her owns eyes, that Nick would save her. Nick has the strength to save her, would find her no matter what. She believes that more than any other truth in the universe. He would find a way to save her. She does not have that luxury. The voice knows that she is just a woman. She's just a vet and she can do nothing.

She shakes her head violently, running a hand through her hair.

No, he'd had his chance to prove himself. He'd found her; he'd saved her. It had hurt like hell but he'd done it. She'll be damned if she doesn't try just as hard.

She'll find him. Somehow she'll find him, even if she's just a woman. Nick would do it, had done it, for her and she isn't about to do anything less. He's proven himself.

She'll do the same. She has to do the same.

* * *

Hank holds an arm out in front of her, his entire figure seeming to fill the doorway. His eyes are almost pitying, regretful, as he holds her back. She can hear the snarls in the barn beyond, the voice familiar and alien all at once, sounding closer to a feral animal than the man she loves. Her friend's voice is soft when he finally speaks, at odds with the chaos behind him, "Juliette. It isn't safe."

"Hank, if Nick is in there…"

"I don't know that he is," he cuts her off quickly, succinctly, and she watches the visible change in his countenance. He shifts with a whiplash inducing quickness from friend to detective, in charge of the situation and dismissing an overly concerned civilian. The man sighs, throwing a quick look over his shoulder. Whatever he sees disturbs him; his lips thin and in that moment he looks infinitely older. She could guarantee they all do. "Until we know what we're dealing with…"

"...you're just going to what? Tell me to go home? Wait for you to call? Hank, I'm not going to leave him. I can't leave him," she pushes at his arm, her posture steeled, daring him to challenge her on this. The others are shifting behind them, unwilling to intervene. It's just her now.

He throws a glance over his shoulder, meeting Renard's gaze. The two converse silently, weighing whether or not they will allow her this. Maybe they shouldn't. In the back of her head she _knows_ they shouldn't. The decision isn't tactically sound; nothing good can come of it. This can only hurt her, emotionally or physically.

But she needs to be in there. She can't be anywhere else. She needs to be in there now.

"Hank," her voice is completely even, sober, no flicker of doubt in her eyes. She takes another step forward, edging her way past his arm. He doesn't stop her. Maybe he wants to believe she can do something. They've fought their way back to each other so often recently that this will be just the same. Somehow, some magical way, she'll snap him out of this. More likely, Hank simply sees _her_. Her jaw is set and there's a mad sort of energy about her, walking the tightrope of her sanity. Maybe he sees a woman who has had everything stolen from her once too often and refuses, come hell or whatever else, to let the man she loves go again.

Hank's arm falls away, his eyes sad as he steps infinitesimally back, "Better know what you're doing."

She doesn't; they are all aware of that, equally aware that it's her only real choice. Juliette offers him a wan twitch of her lips, squaring her shoulders and stepping into the barn. The room stinks of blood and dirt, the scents heavy on the saturated air. His snarls are the only thing that break the otherwise serene night air, the rough, guttural sound at odds with the delicate pitter patter of rain. Nick pulls against his bindings, back straining as he attempts to wrestle free; with some colossal effort they've managed to secure him to one of the beams. His wrists are bleeding from his attempts to free himself, the skin tearing as the cuffs bite at him. Feral. Like some great predator, caged and not understanding why, willing to chew its foot off if only to get loose again.

An animal. The intelligent man she's known for so many years is stripped down to his basest state and it almost hurts to look at him laid so bare. Her heart breaks a little at the sight, more a corpse than a man. There are a variety of abrasions dotting his face and his eyes are a furious red. No trace of the blue she fell in love with.

"Nick," she takes a tentative step forward, watching him carefully, moving slowly. All those years of schooling come back to her in a wash, every pointless lecture she'd written off at the time, thinking she'd never be staring down some huge, feral, animal. She signed on for housepets, she's _treated_ primarily housepets, and even if it's been years she can suddenly remember every word ever spoken to her about situations like this. Her voice is level, calm, "Nick, can you hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He growls at her, snarling and wincing at the sound of her voice. As if she's shouting at him. He glares fitfully around the barn, gaze flicking from her to their friends in the next room. His pupils contract and expand at an alarming rate, senses undoubtedly on overdrive. Nick's nostrils flare, furious and confused and hurt.

Juliette stops in front of him, forcing herself not to wince when he jerks forward, testing his bindings. The cuffs bite into his wrists, the scent of blood coming more strongly as he forces the material deeper. He snarls again, yanking with more force. They won't be enough to hold him. She doesn't know what could when he's like this. She offers him a soft smile, only the left corner managing to quirk up, "You need to stop, Nick. You have to calm down and listen to what I'm saying to you. Can you do that?"

She frowns as his features twist in pain. Before she can stop herself she's moving forward, reaching out to him. It's the single stupidest decision in her adult life (and god knows she's had her share of them recently) but she can't bring herself to regret it. Not when it's him. There's a trust still present, still so deep that she believes, has to believe, that some part of him knows her. Juliette doesn't speak, her fingers curling around his arm before he can react.

His eyes widen, breath seeming to catch at the contact. Staring at her with the desperate sort of confusion she's seen so many times in animals. Desperate and hopeful and almost...innocent despite it all. Nick tenses and relaxes, going slack as she smooths her thumb along the angry lines cut across his skin. For one perfect minute, everything is right. His breathing evens out, his muscles slackening with every swipe of her fingers. For a moment, she almost thinks they have this. That they've earned it and for once, for _once_, things will work in their favor.

Her voice is barely a whisper, soft and close to pleading, "Nick. Let me help." Just this once. Let her make it even. Let _her_ make the effort.

For one beautiful minute, he stills almost completely, staring at her with a miserable sort of clarity. He stops. He _sees_ her, not past her, not through her, but _her_. The woman he knows, at least on some level. She will nearly cry later when she thinks back on his expression, defeated, eyes so nakedly pained. He's begging her for something. To save him, maybe. To return the favor, to keep their pattern running.

For one beautiful minute, she almost thinks she can.

The illusion snaps like an over taut strand of elastic, pulled too tight and pushed past its limits. Somewhere above them thunder rolls across the sky, the pitter patter of rain becomes a downpour and the sound echoes around them. Nick snarls in pain, his head dipping to his chest and eyes rolling shut. He jerks away from her with a snarl, redoubling his efforts, thrashing and twisting, glaring at her with a betrayed fury. The wood lets out a groan of protest, buckling behind him. His wrists are a mottled patchwork of bruises and gore.

"Hank! Monroe!" Her voice sounds far away as she yells for them, a sickening sort of despair settling in her gut. The two men come running immediately, working to restrain him as best as they are able. Juliette can only take a step back, oddly numb, green eyes meeting blood red. Hurt and betrayed.

For one minute, she almost thinks she can save him.

But she isn't a Grimm. She isn't a cop; she isn't wesen. She's just a woman. Just a vet.

In the end, that voice in her head is whispering, resigned and painfully sad, she can do nothing.


End file.
